


The Raven and the Swan

by LunaChai



Series: in the waiting [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23587855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaChai/pseuds/LunaChai
Summary: With the monastery fallen and war looming on the horizon, Fhirdiad hosts one last festivity: a masquerade ball.All nobles are expected to attend. Felix searches for one in particular.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Series: in the waiting [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1569043
Comments: 21
Kudos: 155
Collections: FantasyFelannieWeek2020





	The Raven and the Swan

**Author's Note:**

> no birds were harmed in the making of this fic. am i meming about mr. dodge voicing naesala? haha! maybe.
> 
> for fantastical felannie week, day 1, masquerade!

Ballrooms are, within Felix's experience, just another battlefield. The Fhirdiad Winter Gala is no exception.

The gala is grand, as it must be, layered in gilded ornaments and opulent fabrics, surrounded by extravagant tables laden with feasts. After all, no noble would dare take ill on this day—not on the final day of negotiations, where alliances shall solidify and battle lines shall be drawn.

But all Felix can see is another arena.

The pauldrons that ordinarily plate his shoulders in cold, grey iron have braided into epaulettes garnished with dark feathers and black pearls, sharp and foreboding as a raven. The crowd of Faerghus's aristocracy that mills before him stinks of perfume, not blood, the brocade of their dresses garish under the chandeliers. And rather than the faces of corpses, still and cold in the dying sunset, they bear half-masks braced under their eyes and over their noses like strangling poppies.

In the crowd of hidden faces, Felix quickly picks out flecks of gold crowning valkyrie wings—Ingrid, no doubt—and an iron black helm with garnet plumage—Sylvain, he is certain.

It's a mild comfort to know that his fellow soldiers have joined these front lines.

Still, his eyes roam. The telltale royal blue of Faerghus royalty swaths the Lord Regent's shoulders, and an ocean-blue cloak lined with burnished purple sets apart Ashe—an edge case, barely making the list. Felix frowns as his gaze moves on, sweeping past baroque gowns and decorative uniforms.

"Are you looking for someone?" rolls a smooth, lulling voice by his ear: Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius, his father, and one of the key pieces on the chessboard.

Felix's gaze snaps away. His spine straightens and his mouth runs taut.

"No," he says.

Rodrigue clicks his tongue lightly. Felix can hear his faint smile. "Miss Galatea and Sir Gautier may be discouraged to hear that."

"They'll get over it," Felix says dismissively. He turns to regard his father.

Duke Rodrigue Fraldarius takes to the ballroom as more than a fish to water; he is a shark, a master, a predator. Dressed impeccably—and symbolically—in layered and luxurious brocade, he pulls a bold combination of burning sea-teal and silver. Despite his mild smile and genteel manners, the pressure of his charisma bears upon the floor. He is, much to Felix's reluctant admission, a significant reason why the Faerghus Dukedom commands such respect.

"If you are looking for the prince," Rodrigue says smoothly, adjusting his leviathan's mask, "then he has taken ill today."

"Why would I be looking for the boar?" Felix snaps.

Rodrigue's eyes glint. "Ah. So you seek someone else, then."

Felix bites his tongue. Damn his father and his mind games. He was always an expert at bending conversations to his liking.

"You don't have the bearing of someone seeking a target or an enemy," Rodrigue muses, stroking his chin lightly. "Perhaps it is a woman."

Felix shoots him a glare so precise and heated that he's sure it carries through his mask. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Yes, yes," says Rodrigue dismissively. Then his eyes cast to the dance floor, and he pauses. "What a lovely swan gown, wouldn't you say?"

And despite himself, Felix looks.

Something pulses through the dimness of the candlelight. He sees white feathers, mesmerizingly bright, almost hazy in his vision. And there, peeping softly behind the cover of an ivory mask, is a tongue of fiery orange hair.

Felix's pulse stops. He swivels to his father, a light sense of panic rising in his chest. "How did you kn—"

Rodrigue is gone.

His father _always_ knows. How does he _always_ know?

Felix grits his teeth and painstakingly pushes his way through the crowd. His shoes clatter against the marble flooring.

_A flash of light, and then a big boom!_

His father's words from the carriage ride linger in his mind: _Cast away everything you think you know, even your past friendships with former classmates. This is the day the tables turn, and you will not know allegiances until the pieces fall._

He collides into a nobleman who shoots him a heated glare. He only suffers a curt nod as an apology.

_Just takes a flash of light—_

Slowly, Felix draws close.

_—and then it all goes boom!_

He's about to reach out and touch the woman's shoulder when she turns, and their eyes meet beneath their masks.

The dress flows around her figure, swanlike in silk and satin, woven with an ethereal glow beneath the chandeliers that fills the spaces between his heartbeats. Under accented clips of golden birds and pearl beads, her fiery hair is neatly swept into a braided updo.

Her lips part when she sees him. He can catch the color of her eyes beneath her mask—dusty blue, like the ocean on a cloudy day.

They stand there in silence. Around them tinkles the faint _clink_ of champagne glasses.

Felix extends a hand. "Care for a dance?" he says.

His voice sounds odd to his own ears: lower and hazier than usual, like a sword with a dull edge.

Around them, a whirl of skirts blur into a kaleidoscope of color.

Then the woman nods and takes his arm.

He walks her out to the fringes of the floor—where they won't get attention, and where they won't be bothered. Her footing is uncertain, but the touch on his arm is light. She doesn't wish to lean on him. When they meet their destination, they part to face each other.

The raven bows. The swan curtsies.

Then Felix steps close. One hand settles on the woman's hip; the other lightly takes her gloved hand. She meticulously rests her hand on his shoulder, and they turn, shielded by the swelling strains of violins.

He's held this hand before, just once. It was riddled with ink stains, the knuckles bumpy from clutching a quill too tight. And it was accidental, more than anything; he entered the library one night to find her asleep at the table, books splayed beneath her cheek. When he drew too close, she clutched his hand with a pitiful, whimpering _Father_ and he'd frozen solid to the ground for a good fifteen minutes.

Now, dressed in grandeur and surrounded by sinister smiles, done up like puppets of the Fhirdiad aristocracy, her hand feels distinctly different.

The cellos crescendo, and the woman slides back as Felix slides forward. "How are you doing this evening?" she says politely.

No, not politely— _calculatingly,_ like everyone else in the room.

"Well enough," Felix says brusquely. He pivots her out, then spins her back in. She is graceful on her feet, assured. She always has been when surrounded by music.

 _Dominic's loyalties are uncertain,_ were the circulating whispers among the nobles' conference.

The birds in the woman's hair glitter under the chandeliers like starlight. Her fingers brace carefully on his shoulder as they sweep in.

"I wasn't aware you danced," she says.

"I don't."

She huffs quietly. "Then what do you call"—but then she remembers herself—"I, I mean to say, you are too humble. You are quite graceful for one who claims to be unpracticed."

 _Dominic shall be one of the first to turn for the Empire,_ predicted one of the Ministers of Strategy at his father's court.

"I didn't say I wasn't practiced," Felix corrects her. "I just don't make a habit of dancing with others."

Her fingers tremble a little on his shoulder; she's flustered.

Felix presses forward. "There's room for exceptions."

Her teeth catch nervously on her lower lip.

He leans in. "Certain exceptions."

Her breath hitches just barely in her throat. The icy wall between them begins to crackle.

"That's, uh, that's very"—and he's satisfied to hear the little stumble in her words, some genuine, adorable fumbling beneath the propriety—"very courteous of you. Um. Thank you."

He wants to tease her, but he says nothing. The air is heavy, draped in suspicion and grim resignation, war drums beating beneath the surface and mustering every domain to arms.

And they're still testing each other.

It's hard to believe that just months ago, they fought side by side at the monastery gates, caked with sweat and dirt, screaming until their throats were raw as they sliced through flesh with wind and steel. He trusted her with his life, and she trusted him with hers.

 _Felix!_ she cried, sending a blitzing gale to sever the head of an assailing paladin.

He roared back at her when he saw an assassin sift through the shadows. He took a dagger straight in the back for her. The agony exploded until she stitched his skin back together with the warmth of her white magic.

But then one moment, they were winning, and the next, Professor Byleth was dead, the walls were overrun, and the Imperial army was sweeping through the monastery, burning every living thing in their path. One moment, Felix was fighting at the Blue Lions' side, and the next, everyone was whisked back to their homes without so much a goodbye.

And now, he's reunited with her, only to dance around an aching distance of doubt and thinly veiled hostility.

The waltz fades into a lull. Felix leads her into a smooth, thoughtless box step.

"Fe—sir," says the woman quietly. Her hand barely squeezes his. "Who am I talking to?"

Felix watches her. He can see nothing beneath the pale mask of gold filigree and swan feathers.

"How about a friend?" he murmurs.

She's trembling, just slightly. "Is that true?"

 _You tell me,_ he wants to say. Despite the external pressure of the approaching Imperial army, tensions within the kingdom were rising. Infighting was inevitable. Even this ballroom was just another battlefield—a place for nobles to curry favor and draw up lines against one another.

Instead, he says what he wishes:

"Yes. It's true."

Her shoulders barely slump, and he hears a shaky sigh from her lips. Something changes in that moment, like a bowstring that's been loosened, or taut reins that have been cut.

"That would be nice," she says—tightly, like she's about to cry. "That'd be really nice."

They sway in silence, then pivot as the song raises to a crescendo. A slight smile pulls at the woman's lips, and when she looks up at him, he sees her eyes sparkle with the light of the chandelier.

"Do you know what they say about ravens?" she says.

He tilts his head to regard her. "That they're bad omens."

"And harbringers of death. And feeders of corpses. And master tricksters. And—"

Trust her to have read every fact about ravens. Every _bad_ fact about ravens. "Is there a point to this question?" he says sharply.

She flushes just slightly, her cheeks blooming pink under candlelight.

"They also mean... symbols of magic. You look magical tonight, Sir Raven."

He blinks.

The chamber orchestra sings its last note.

The woman steps away from him and curtsies, the feathers of her skirt dusting the marble floor. His pulse pounds: _one, two, three._

"Thank you for the dance," she says softly.

And she tiptoes up, the beading of her dress catching the light. Her gloved hands gently brace his jaw as she tilts his head down, turns her face, and slowly, deliberately presses her lips to his cheek.

Felix is very still.

Something is tumbling heatedly in his chest, like he's just fought an especially intense bout and is regaining his breath.

The woman's lips stay there. The feeling of her bare skin jolts to his ears.

Then she pulls away, her motions still soft and slow. He feels a quiet breath warm his ear, and his neck begins to tingle.

"Goodbye, Sir Raven," the woman fumbles. She picks up her skirts and flees to the nearest refreshments table.

Felix stands there. His gloved hand raises to touch his cheek.

"Goodbye, Miss Swan," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/lunachaili)


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